Self-Defense

When our boys were young, it was pretty apparent that neither one was interested in sports. Shocking, I know, because everyone knows that every boy is just crazy about sports, right? They are if wrapping paper, clothing catalogs, and commercials are to be believed.

Our boys weren’t and still aren’t. However, Ed and I decided that we wanted the boys to do something physical, if for not other reason than to prevent them from becoming permanently rooted to the chair in front of the computer.

We decided on the martial arts and set about finding the right place. Some martial arts studios are, quite frankly, creepy places. The instructors practically drip aggression and put me in mind of Robert Wagner in those Energizer battery commercials (”Go ahead. Knock it off. I dare you.”). Other studios are so wrapped up in “the mystery of the orient” that it makes you wonder if they require their students to carry a cast-iron pot across the room using their inner wrists a la the David Carradine “Kung Fu” TV series.

My least-favorite martial arts studios are the ones where I’d walk in, and the male staff would check me out, making no effort to be subtle about it. Some dismissed me out of hand, which was fine by me. Others, though, would begin preening. Yeah, nothing is going to get me out of my clothes faster than watching a guy flex his muscles while trying to look sexy. Ugh.

At the recommendation of one of Ed’s sisters, we checked out a martial arts studio about 20 minutes away. As soon as I walked in, I was struck by how relaxed and happy all the kids, parents, and instructors were. The classes were hard work, but looked fun, too. The facility was clean and full of sunlight. The instructors were, for the most part, young men who were friendly, polite, and engaged. Best of all, my creepy-o-meter didn’t even register. Sold!

The fees for this school were pretty steep. We justified the expense because the boys would be learning self-defense skills and discipline, plus they’d have the opportunity to socialize with a new group of children.

Buddhaboy could take kenpo karate or leave it. He’d participate; however, his mind was usually in a different place during class. Skimbleshanks, on the other hand, took to kenpo like a fish to water. He was focused, intense, and did well.

One day as I was driving the boys to karate, I learned that there had been an incident on the playground that day involving Skimbleshanks. I didn’t get a lot of information, but what I did get was that a girl had choked my son on the playground. She wrapped her arm around his throat and squeezed and did so in full view of the adults who were monitoring recess that day.

The more he talked, the more apparent that Skimbleshanks was devastated by what had happened. No, not the choking. He was angry and embarrassed that he hadn’t used his self-defense techniques on the girl. Instead, he’d been stunned into immobility.

The very first thought that went flitting through my mind as he told me the story wasn’t about my son. No, that first thought was, “My god, what must that girl’s home life be like that she’d do something like that and do it in front of adults?” I still have that thought today, nearly 10 years later. Did the girl witness violent acts in her own home or maybe was permitted to watch inappropriate things on TV? Did she have rage issues? Was this being done to her, perhaps? It makes me ill just thinking of the life she must have been leading.

Skimbleshanks was my top priority. He was growing more and more upset as the minutes went by. When we arrived at the karate studio, he was nearly in tears. Once we were inside, I immediately looked for one of the boys’ — heck, everyone’s — favorite instructors, Mr. Anthony. Once I found him, I quickly and quietly told him what had happened and asked him to talk with Skimbleshanks.

As the two of them talked, I saw that Skimbleshanks was beginning to calm down. He listened attentively, as did I. The main point that Mr. Anthony made was that it was never right to start a fight; however, everyone has the right to defend himself or herself. He described what Skimbleshanks could have done and what he might do if he found himself in a similar situation. And he drove home the main message: It’s OK to defend yourself.

The next few years went by without any similar incidents. Then, when Skimbleshanks was 13 and in middle school, he again found himself being choked by someone. (As an aside, let me point out that we live in white-bread suburbia here, not in what anyone would describe as a “tough” area.)

What I learned was that this kid’s last name was Racer, and this was back in 2008, when the movie “Speed Racer” came out. The boy was upset about something, and Skimbleshanks said, “Whoa! Calm down, Speed Racer.”

“What did you say?” the boy responded.

Now that phrase is generally known to be a warning shot across the bow. When someone says “what did you say?” in a tense situation, it’s a warning that things are about to get ugly. Most people know this, right? Maybe, but Skimbleshanks didn’t.

So he repeated himself.

Mr. Racer then wrapped his arm around Skimbleshanks’s throat. Since he was sitting on a bench in the locker room, Skimbleshanks didn’t have a lot of room or time to maneuver. The incident ended (I’m not sure what happened. As a mom, I don’t get a lot of information from my boys, and when I do, it’s usually after a lot of effort on my part). Both boys were sent to the office.

I had to explain to Skimbleshanks several times how important it is to be able to read body language, tone, and atmosphere to prevent these situations from escalating. I don’t know whether he ever got my point or if he’s even capable of picking up on these nuances of human behavior. Some people are highly attuned to these sorts of things; other people are not. I pick up on the mood in a room and whether a person I’ve just met is trustworthy almost immediately. Maybe this is because I’m an introvert and am an acute observer. Who knows? With Skimbleshanks, all I can do is coach him on this stuff and hope that he trains himself to be more observant.

The third and final encounter Skimbleshanks had with an aggressive person was also while he was in middle school. It seems that there was a group of girls on his bus who were loudmouths (his description) and bullies (my deduction).

One day on the bus, this group of girls was throwing things and, in general, being annoying. One of the items thrown was a bottle of water. When the bottle hit Skimbleshanks, he picked it up and pegged the lead girl in the head with it. (No, I don’t condone that, and yes, I did tell him so.)

In a rage, the girl got up from her seat and began to charge up the aisle toward Skimbleshanks. In turn, he stood up, took up a fighting stance, and let out a “kee-ai!” The whole while, he had his game face on, shooting laser beams of “don’t mess with me” at his attacker.

She stopped in her tracks. Then she turned and went back to her seat.

Skimbleshanks had no further problems with that group of girls.

This event is what made all the mileage, all the expense, and all the effort of the boys’ self-defense training worth while. Skimbleshanks finally had learned to be aware of his surroundings and was ready to defend himself.

Once you release your child into the wooly wilds of the real world, it’s important that you know and that he knows that he can take care of himself. The world is full of bullies and people who don’t know what to do with their rage. Fortunately, they’re not all concentrated in one area. But all it takes is one person who can strip you of your self-confidence and make you feel like a victim.

Skimbleshanks was a victim twice (that I know of). He could have been a victim a third time. Instead, he recognized what was happening and what might happen if he didn’t take charge. And by standing up to a bully and letting her know that he wasn’t going to just take what she intended to dish out, he proved the adage that the best defense is a good offense. Or, as Mr. Han said in “The Karate Kid,” (2010), “Best fights are the ones we avoid.”

Naked Time

Some kids are clothes horses. Some could not possibly care less what they wear. And then there are those who’d rather not wear a thing.

Skimbleshanks was one of those nature kids who didn’t really see the need for clothing. I’ve never had a problem with a little kid who wanted to just let it all hang out. I figured that, since we were either in our home or in our secluded back yard, the only eyes that might be offended were my own. Besides, who was he hurting?

Early in the spring of 1997 I was stumbling to the car after an appointment whose outcome would answer the question, “Am I pregnant?” with a resounding “Yes!” I was stumbling because I was exhausted and trying to catch my 2-year-old, Skimbleshanks, who was merrily stripping off his clothes in the chilly morning. I was shouting out different bribes, trying to reach an accord with my son that would result in his keeping at least one item of clothes on. I was exhausted, and the cat-and-mousecapades were but a foreshadowing of what my pregnancy would be like while dealing with a feisty 2-year-old.

One warm, sunny morning later that spring, Matthew and I were waiting for my father to come over for a visit. Matthew wanted to run around naked in the yard, and I was fine with the idea. It was while he was naked that one of nature’s angriest insects, the yellow jacket, began buzzing around Matthew. I kept my eye on it and probably shooed it off once or twice. Then, right in front of my eyes, that little bastard landed right on Matthew’s … um … penis, not to put too fine a point on it.

I didn’t blink, and I didn’t hesitate, but time seemed to stand still. God, being stung there would be torture to any male, let alone a little 2-year-old.

As I pulled my hand back for my forward swing to shoo the critter off, it’s butt dipped down, and it struck. Time sped up into hyperdrive. The wasp flew off, and in the second before all hell broke loose, I scooped my kid up and bolted for the house.

He was howling by the time we hit the back door. I flung it open, scrabbled around in the freezer, and put an ice cube on the injured part with one hand while dialing the phone with the other.

“Ed? Matthew was just stung on the penis by a yellow jacket. What do I do?!”

“Do? I don’t know.”

“What if it swells up and gets infected and falls off?!”

“Um … maybe you should call Jan.”

Jan is one of Ed’s sisters. She’s a postpartum nurse and the mother of three boys. She’s either seen or had to deal with just about every sort of medical emergency under the sun.

“Jan? Thank god you’re home. Matthew’s been stung on the penis by a yellow jacket. What do I do?”

In her usual calm manner, Jan suggested ice (check)to slow down the progress of the venom through the bloodstream. Then she asked if I had any of the spray they’d given me in the hospital when I’d delivered Matthew.”

“It’s name ends in -caine.”

“Yeah, I still have it.”

“Good. It’s a numbing agent and should help with the pain. Good luck.”

I took another look at Matthew’s poor little penis, and it was a dark, angry red, swollen in a way that me imagining gangrene and all sorts of horrific outcomes. It was not a happy penis.

(Note: This has got to be a record for the use of the word “penis” outside of a medical text. Porn and erotica usually don’t use the medical term … or so I’ve heard.)

I ran to the bathroom and threw things around inside the closet and under the sink until I came up with the right spray can.

Matthew was, as you might imagine, a little leery of my spraying his wounded penis with anything. It took some work, but I managed to convince him that the spray would make the pain go away — and it did.

I wanted nothing more than to just bang my head against a wall. For Pete’s sake, what is wrong in the world when a little boy can’t frolic around in the all-together without a pissed off insect causing him grievous harm?

In due course, my father arrived. Once he got settled, he asked me what was new. I told him about the morning’s event, ending with something to the effect that, frolicking naked is an utterly harmless activity.

“I guess you learned that you were wrong,” he said. I would have felt better if I’d punched him, but he was just being my dad. He’s never one to let a so-called teachable moment pass by. I would refer to it as an adding-insult-to-injury moment, but that’s just me.

When Elliot came along, we had a different problem. Both boys loved stripping and running around. It was harmless, but aggravating. We didn’t want to punish the boys for doing what little kids just love to do, something harmless. What to do?

We owe a debt to Dana Carvey. The comedian, who also has two boys, described what he and his wife did to deal this this exact situation: Naked Time (for the boys, not Dana and his wife).

So that’s what we did, too.

“Boys! It’s now Naked Time. For the next 20 minutes, you can run around naked.”

“Elliot!” Matthew would shout. “Naked Time!” Man, you would have thought that we’d announced that it was Christmas and that a bottomless bowl of candy was being provided for their enjoyment.

Ed and I warned the boys that Naked Time would end if there were any accidents. Now that I think back, I don’t believe there were any.

By that point, Matthew knew how to use the toilet — more importantly, he knew how to hold on until he reached the toilet. Buddhaboy, however, was a different matter. He was just a toddler and had neither the skill nor the inclination to use a toilet. Still, the excitement of Naked Time was enough for him to put his natural functions on hold.

I wonder … maybe if we’d instituted more frequent Naked Times, we might have been able to get Buddhaboy out of diapers w-a-y sooner.

Naked time, of a sort, didn’t end when the boys were toddlers, either.

Ed and I have always been very open with the boys, telling them that they should feel comfortable asking us anything. We want our kids to have correct information and believe that the odds of that are much higher when the information comes from us. Now, when you take that position, that means that you are agreeing to answer any question on any subject, regardless of whether it embarrasses you or not.

I was reading, curled up in my favorite chair, when I heard the following: “Mom? Does this look normal to you?”

Even before I turned my head to look, I pretty much knew what I was going to see. Call it intuition.

A boy (identity concealed to protect the guilty) stood next to me in his all-together, holding his penis out so that I could inspect it. I believe there was a pimple or small discoloration on it. In the calmest voice I could muster, I answered.

“That looks perfectly normal to me, honey. Why don’t you have your father take a look and give you a second opinion?”

Somewhat relieved, the boy left the room. I rolled my eyes and went back to my book.

A short while later, Ed came into the room.

“Why did you send him to me?” he hissed.

“Because I don’t have one of those. You’re the default expect on that particular subject matter.”

It’s true. When you have kids, whether you’re a woman in the throes of labor or a father being presented with a questionable skin condition, your modesty really isn’t the issue at all. What it’s all about is remaining calm and answering those questions as best as you’re able, reassuring your kid that all is well. Save your embarrassment for another time. Believe me, there will be plenty of them as your kids grow up.

My bruddah

Back when the boys were little, I’d take them to a local McDonald’s that had an indoor playground. For the price of admission (three Happy Meals — the third was mine so that I’d have a backup toy in case one of the boys’ went missing), we could eat, then the boys would play for about an hour while I read a book.

The play area had brightly colored plastic tubes through which the kids would crawl endlessly. At the top was a small room with plastic windows through which a child could peer and wave before disappearing back into the maze. There was a slide and numerous areas where the kids could crawl into and out of the maze. And there was a ball pit.

I was never one of those parents who carried hand sanitizer in a holster, ready to slather the stuff on my little snowflakes. On the other hand, as I watched more than one little snot-nosed child clambering around, I wondered how often the play area was disinfected … or if it ever was. My kids are both disgustingly healthy, and I wonder if it was because they were exposed to enough germs to make an epidemiologist faint. First there was day care, then school, and the necessary trips to a variety of stores, and the McDonald’s playground.

Taking your kid to a playground is an interesting adventure. Next time you’re near a playground, take a moment to observe what’s going on. The kids are happily playing, some with reckless abandon, others with an almost palpable air of caution. Meanwhile, parents, grandparents, and other caretakers ring the playground. Some are relaxed, either sitting on benches or standing talking with other adults. Others, however, are poised to leap into action and keep an eagle eye on their children. These parents remind me of the big cats in the zoo. They pace and pace, keeping their eye on their children, never for an instant letting them out of their sight. Of course, the big cats are trying to figure out how to get out of their enclosures and eat their observers. The parents are just trying to keep track of their own cubs, which are constantly on the move.

Back to the McDonald’s playground. Kids can sometime form alliances in an instant, making a new friend to run around with and challenge to daring imaginary adventures.

My older son had made one of these transitory friends while playing in the ball pit. He was about 5 and so had the requisite skills for climbing and jumping. The two of them were having a great time, while my 2-year-old son kept on the periphery of their play.

I was reading when I heard a howl of pain. All the parents’ heads snapped up and turned toward the playground, mine included. Out of the ball pit came my 5-year-old and his friend, who had a hand clamped to the side of his head. My 2-year-old stayed inside the ball pit, sitting on one of the ledges.

The boy’s mother calmly walked over to him, squatted down, and took a look at the boy’s ear. She talked to him quietly, gave him a kiss, and had him go sit down.

“Skimbleshanks? What happened?” I asked my son.

“Buddhaboy bit that kid. He bit him right on the ear.”

What. The. Hell?!

“Buddhaboy! Come here!” I was utterly nonplussed. True, Buddhaboy was only 2; however, he’d never been a biter, as some kids are. He walked up to me.

“Did you bite that boy?”

“Yes.”

“Why?! Why in the world would you bite someone?”

“He pushed my bruddah.”

I blinked, then turned to Skimbleshanks for his expert interpretation.

“That boy and I were playing, and he pushed me into the ball pit. We were playing. He wasn’t being mean. We were just playing.”

I figured things might go more smoothly if I gave myself a minute or two to calm down. I had the boys sit at the table and eat their food. I walked over to the table where the other mother and her son, whose ear was bright red, were sitting.

“I am so, so sorry,” I began. “My younger son thought he was protecting his brother. Is your son all right?”

“He’s fine. The skin is broken, but he’s fine.”

I felt my stomach drop down and my mouth drop open. Broken skin = blood. Blood = blood tests, shots, the end of the world.

The woman must have known what was racing around in my mind, because she smiled and again told me that the boy was fine and not to worry about it.

“These things sometimes happen,” she said.

“Not to me,” I responded. “I’m so very sorry.”

I went back to the table and began throwing uneaten food into a bag and scooped the trash onto the tray. My motions were jerky and quick. I wanted to get out of that place and away as quickly as I could.

In the car I tried turning the day’s event into a teachable moment.

“Buddhaboy, honey? Do I ever bite you?”

“No.”

“Does Skimbleshanks ever bite you?”

“No.”

“Does daddy ever bite you?”

“No.”

“Do the dogs ever bite you?”

“No.”

“Do you think that it’s OK to bite other people?”

“No … but he pushed my big bruddah.”

“Honey, they were just playing.”

“Yeah, Buddhaboy,” Skimbleshanks chimed in. “He wasn’t being mean. We were playing.”

In the rear-view mirror I looked at Buddhaboy. His eyebrows were drawn together, his mouth set in a tight line.

“He pushed my bruddah. No one pushes my bruddah.”

I had to give the kid credit. He was looking out for his brother, something we’ve told both of the boys they should do. We’ve also told them that they should look out for others, too. We take care of each other, in other words. However, nothing could shake Buddhaboy’s believe that he was looking out for Skimbleshanks. And, being a 2-year-old and smaller than the older boys, an ear bite was, I suppose, the way he set about protecting Skimbleshanks.

There were no further biting incidents after that one. My little boys are now both taller than I am, both young men. Yet I wonder what might happen if my 14-year-old Buddhaboy observed his 17-year-old brother being picked on. I don’t wonder about it often, though, because I’m pretty sure that he’d step in, even though his older brother is well-muscled and more savvy now than he was then.

“No one pushes my big bruddah” indeed.